


Advent of Snow and Love: A Downton Abbey Christmas Anthology

by scathach124



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Decorations, Demon Santa Claus, Falling In Love, Multi, New York City
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-02
Updated: 2014-12-04
Packaged: 2018-02-27 19:50:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2704457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scathach124/pseuds/scathach124
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Christmas is in the air, and so is love. From the hallowed halls of Downton to the modern streets of NYC, truths will be confessed, hearts will break, and general merriment and holiday spirit will ensue. A multiple-pairing treasury for the month of December.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tidings of Boredom and Cold

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, wonderful readers! Welcome to Advent of Snow and Love. Judging from the title, you have probably guessed that this is a Downton Abbey holiday fic. Of course, it isn't the only one out there, but whatever! I thought I might give this a whirl. I don't know if this will just happen to turn out like other Downton holiday stories, but I haven't read a lot of them, I just find recommendations for them online.
> 
> Let me tell you how (I hope) this is going to work. This fic is going to (hopefully) be updated on a daily basis, one chapter for each day leading up to the 24th of December. Sort of an advent calendar style. It is also an anthology of different pairings; some will be more central, others will be more background. It is also a modern AU. So, basically it is a Modern Holiday Advent Calendar-style Anthology of Downton Abbey Pairings. Love Actually, much?
> 
> Also, the rating system is a bit iffy with these sort of fics. Therefore, I shall rate each chapter myself before beginning the story.
> 
> So, let the holiday cheer begin!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While in New York City, Mary receives an email from a faraway friend, whom she is not sure of her feelings for.

First December in New York, Mary thought to herself. Isn't this just special?

Her inside voice was sounding particularly sardonic right now, and being currently surrounded by raucous busybody Americans only contributed to a certain gruffness that Mary had possessed since the morning. She didn't understand why today was the day to be in general disagreement with the world; maybe that was just her natural temperament flaring up. Or perhaps it was because her grandmother's penthouse had been two degrees colder than expected and she had woken up with toes nearly encased in ice.

She grunted a bit when someone's shoulder smashed into hers. Mary turned around just in time to see a three-piece suit (yakking on his mobile, of course) disappear into a store. She shook her head, but continued on her way. A trifle annoying whenever she made contact with a tactless stranger, but she was used to it by now. Especially on busy sidewalks like the one she was on now. She liked to think of Avenue of the Americas as closer to Avenue of the Bruised shoulders.

She had just made a quiet exit out of the 21 Bar where she had sat through a lunch with her grandmother and some wealthy friends, but she had not been particularly enthusiastic about it. She had been, for the past two months, in New York City, but she hadn't made very many new friends. It was Grandmama's great goal to get Mary her own circle of companions, but the parties and outings she had been dragged to were attended by self-centered celebrities or diva-like socialites. Mary wasn't fond of being forced to socialize, and having to do so with narrow minded people was just about unbearable.

By now Mary was passing close to Rockefeller Center, the Mecca to the numerous tourists gathered like pigeons near bread. The infamous Christmas tree in front of the skyscraper was already standing erect. But they hadn't lit it up yet. If Mary could remember correctly, the lighting ceremony was taking place in a few days. She still hadn't decided if she was going to go to that. Grandmama had forewarned her that there would be "more tourists than you could package into Macy's," but saying stuff like that did not always deter Mary. On a few select occasions it did, but that alone would not keep Mary from something she had already set her mind to.

Grandmama's apartment house was located not far from the commercial streets; it was located on a street with many other luxury buildings with opulent facades. Mary could have hailed a taxicab and enjoy a bit of warmth until she reached home, but being able to walk around on her own gave her some peace of mind, even if she had to suffer bumping into the ignorant masses at the same time.

She was able to make it back to the lavish apartment house, first entering through the lobby furnished with a doorman, wide carpets, and round tables topped with huge flower arrangement. The trip in the lift was uneventful, albeit longer than she would have liked, and miraculously she was able to sneak her way into the twenty-room penthouse without any of the staff interrupting her hurried retreat to her bedroom.

Thankful that the penthouse was now a comfortable temperature, Mary shed her heavy pea coat and fashion riding boots, not bothering to set any piece of her ensemble in it's proper place. Feeling the evil spirit of boredom approaching, Mary, still in her stockings, padded over to her laptop. It was charging on the desk, exactly where she had left it. Mary was no technology buff — she actually disliked being so addicted to her MacBook Pro — but she nevertheless had a habit of checking her email a few times a day.

She primarily communicated with her family and friends back home with email. Long distance calling was a hassle (according to her father), and it was simpler in terms of what she communicated: she could say what it was, to the point, and with no awkward pauses. Generally speaking, it was easier, except for the fact that she was expected to reply back. And with nothing of great interest to relay back, such emails were, to put it nicely, lacking meat.

There were two emails waiting for her. One was from Anna. Mary usually replied back to her, since she could trust Anna not to blather back to her parents about anything condescending she said about the egotistical socialites she had to meet up with. Anna's most recent email said:

_Hi Mary. Since it's December and the big tree in Rockefeller Center is being lit soon, I wanted to remind you to take some pics (or maybe a video) of the lighting ceremony. And any other pretty lights you see. John asked this morning if you were planning to go, and I told everyone in New York sees the tree lighting. Do they?_

_Even before we got out of bed, John was asking when we were going to go out and buy Christmas decorations. We don't have any since it's our first year together and in the new flat. We're going out in about fifteen minutes to start shopping and I think John is more excited than I am. You'd hardly believe he's the same man you remember from a few months ago (he's humming carols and he thinks I can't hear him)._

_Remember: lots of pictures!_

_Anna_

Mary smiled a bit — it was the first time she had done so all day. Perhaps she should see the Christmas tree lighting, if only to get some photos for Anna.

She returned to her email inbox to check the second new message. But she hesitated on clicking it open, as her chest tightened for a brief second.

_Sender: Matthew Crawley_.

In the two months that she had been out of England, Matthew had sent her three emails. The first one he had sent five hours after the plane had landed in New York. The second one had been sent around Halloween, but Mary did not read it for at least a week. She in return sent him an email consisting of less than one-hundred and fifty words, divided into two paragraphs, dictating only the briefest of updates.

She felt somewhat guilty at not keeping in touch with him more often. They were friends, certainly, and she had promised that she would write to him. Nevertheless, there was a hint of embarrassment whenever Mary thought about composing an email to him. She realized how silly this was, considering that she sent regular mail to Anna and her parents. But with Matthew – she couldn't place a specific word on the feeling, but it was almost intimate. And with their unofficial status as "good friends," she didn't want anything to be close to intimate. Too much could go wrong with that.

Nonetheless, with a sigh, Mary clicked on the email to read.

_Dear Mary,_

_It was really nice to hear back from you after so long. I suppose you are really busy in America, and with Christmas coming up, well, I'll bet everything will be hectic. I hear New York is the place to be in December, with lots going on. You need to write me again and tell me the most amazing things you plan to do._

_In the meantime, there isn't a lot going on over here. Sybil already has plans for Christmas, and your mother talked to her about not doing anything excessively extravagant (she probably wants to make sure you aren't missing anything spectacular). I suspect Edith is going to be going to London soon because that beau of hers has invited her to stay at his place the week of Christmas. Your father is (obviously) apprehensive, but with you gone I can understand that. Then again, I think it's nice that Edith has a partner that can treat her like a queen, since she's bored to death while she's home._

_As for me, I haven't made any long-term plans, but I think I'm just going to stay here as usual. It just seems easiest, what with you gone and Edith planning to head down to London, just so your parents can have that 'sense of normal' at Christmas. (And partially keeping my mother and your grandmother from tearing each others throat out. Remember last year?) Believe me though, I'd love to follow you to the city and see what the rest of us are missing. I've always thought the idea of spending the holidays in New York to be really glamourous._

_Just remember to keep having fun. You deserve a nice long holiday. And don't take so long to write back, okay?_

_Matthew_

Mary read over the email twice. She was glad that Matthew took the time to write her from time to time. She just did not feel she deserved it.

The past year had been difficult for both of them, for different reasons. With all that had happened between them, it was a wonder they were still, at least, on communication terms. Mary imagined the nature of their relationship to be similar to that status tab on Facebook, "It's Complicated" or something like that.

She kept the email open to remind her that she should write back (even though the odds would she'd procrastinate in doing so) and abandoned her computer for something else to do. Without her grandmama to herd her around the city for activity, finding a cure for boredom was like searching for a tiny pearl in a snow bank. She had occasionally went out on her own, but as she was no native, she never knew where to search for something to do. Museum's were boring, the park was dull, and she never felt like shopping when she was on her own.

Resigned, she picked up today's copy of The New York Times. Normally she was not an avid reader of newspapers – especially in light of recent events – but with American publications she didn't hold much wariness. Any England-related gossip was directed towards the royal family, so she was safe from that here. Ignoring the wild headlines of the front page, she flipped through the large sheets, desperate for anything to catch her interest. There was of course the announcement of the tree lighting, something about a celebrity couple that Mary did not give a hoot about, other similarly dull content.

Ten minutes later, she tossed the paper on the coffee table. There was absolutely nothing to grab her attention. She had had episodes like this in the past, when she felt so bored she felt her brain degenerate into a slug. At home, though, there was usually someone to talk to. Anna, whenever she was not at work, was often a good bet. Her sisters too, as a last resort, though then she'd have to listen to Sybil's feminist rants or Edith drone on about either her newspaper column or her boyfriend (who, in Mary's opinion, should not really be called that, since they lived several counties apart and hadn't gone on a truly private date). Matthew sometimes served as a lifeline, though Mary was embarrassed to admit that she enjoyed talking with him. Not that the two of them conversed face to face for some time. That last time intimate conversation – Mary had to think a bit to remember – was two days before leaving for America.

That last she had spoken with him – the last real time talking, not the simple goodbye he had given her before she gotten into the cab to the airport – had left her feeling very conflicted about staying in America. She had not been prepared to hear just how much Matthew said he was going to miss her. She had simply brushed that off at the time, saying that she'd be forgotten within a week.

Clearly, that hadn't held true. But she wish it had; otherwise, she wouldn't be missing him so much.

"You're an idiot, Mary Crawley," she said to herself. She walked back to the bedroom, opened up her computer, and clicked 'new message.'

_To: Matthew Crawley_

Now, just what was she going to write about?


	2. Visions of Broken Relationships

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas is suffering from a devastating breakup. Jimmy arrives to help him get back on his feet.

For the fifth day in a row, Thomas wondered if he should get out of bed.

He felt like a dead animal on the side of the road, splayed out on the wrinkled sheets, deprived of the will to even look at the clock. The sunlight was hitting his bare back, but it didn't make one speck of difference to Thomas: there could be a tornado outside his window and he wouldn't have given a damn. Well, probably.

His stomach growled: he had hardly eaten for the past few days. He hadn't bathed either, and the smell was starting to become noticeable. He just did not have the will to get up and move on. It felt like he would never get past the horrific, embarrassing evening that had robbed him of all confidence and strength.

On the nightstand, his mobile began to vibrate. Thomas was an arm's length away from it, but he did not feel like picking it up would do any good. He knew who it was.

He ignored it. Nonetheless, the phone kept making noise. After five minutes, Thomas grunted in annoyance, slammed his hand on the nightstand, and pressed the 'answer' button.

"Thomas, I've been calling for five fucking minutes. Where the fuck have you been?"

Thomas did not have a reasonable answer to Jimmy's question. He just grunted.

"Are you even out of bed?" Jimmy asked. Thomas grunted again.

An exasperated sigh on the other end. "Fine, then. I'm coming over."

"Jimmy," Thomas groaned. "Please, don't, I really don't need – "

"Yes you do. I'm bringing sandwiches and tea. And detergent. I hope I don't have to pull you out of bed."

Judging from the next sound, Jimmy had cut off the line. Thomas swore into the useless receiver. Why did Jimmy have to act like his fucking nurse? Did he see him as some sort of invalid?

Ten minutes later, the buzzer rang. Thomas knew he didn't have to get up; Jimmy had a spare key.

"Thomas Idiot Barrow, if you aren't out of bed – !"

"I'm getting up, I swear!" Thomas called out in reply. Mustering was willpower remained, he lifted his head off of the mattress in time to Jimmy standing in the bedroom doorway.

"For God's sake, Thomas, have you taken a shower since I last saw you?" Jimmy seemed more exasperbated than his character usually was. "I'd think after a few days of lying in your own smell you'd seriously consider a shower."

Jimmy grabbed ahold of Thomas's arm and pulled him off the sheets. Thomas nearly fell onto the floor. His legs felt as shapeless as a puddle of water.

"Shower, now. Use soap," Jimmy ordered. Thomas stumbled into the bathroom and closed the door before pulling off his boxers.

Five minutes later, he emerged, hair wet and skin red. He did feel slightly better after standing under the scalding water, even though a shower wasn't going to change much. Except the level of body odor. Meanwhile, Jimmy was setting pre-made sandwiches on plates and pouring tea into mugs.

"Thanks for that," Thomas said pointing to the food. He had been living mostly off of soup for the last two days, since that was mostly what remained in the pantry.

"Don't mention it," Jimmy said. "By the way, I'm running all of your clothes through the wash."

"I know," Thomas said. He was wearing nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist. He sat down and started chewing the tough sandwich.

"Thomas, it's not like Philip was your 'one true love' or whatever. You don't need to act like it's some great travesty."

Thomas angrily swallowed the food in his mouth. "Like you've got any idea of what it's like. You haven't even been Ivy's boyfriend for a month, let alone a year."

"And?" Jimmy sat down in the seat next to him. "You don't have to act like it's the end of the world."

"I feel like it's the end of the fucking universe," Thomas said.

He and Philip Crowborough had been a serious couple for about a year, and they had been good friends since – it was hard to pinpoint an exact date, but Thomas must have considered Philip his friend about two summers before. In Thomas's eyes, Philip was his 'significant other.' They went out together every week, they shared each other's beds, sent love letters, all the silly relationship stuff. But Utopia had been swallowed up by the waves of betrayal as Philip expressed to Thomas that they were "not compatible" without so much as an explanation.

"I have no idea why he would just tell me something like that and break it off right then and there. I dunno if it was the sex, sometimes I can't meet up with up because if work. Honestly, I thought we'd be living together in six months." Thomas stopped to sip some of his tea.

"Maybe he did realize you aren't the one for him," suggested Jimmy.

"Rubbish, Jimmy, he's told me he loves me."

"If you only heard him say that during sex, then it's not as real as saying 'I love you' on some romantic bridge at sunset."

"He said it plenty of times outside of sex," insisted Thomas. Although, if he took the time to consider it long enough, he would not have been able to pinpoint a time when Philip said that he loved him when he was not in bed with him.

"Well, maybe he just needs some time off, or something. You've probably just been acting like a drama queen."

"I've tried calling him, but he ignores me. I stopped calling him yesterday."

Feeling miserable all over again, Thomas took another big bite of his sandwich. He had to chew for a long time to avoid swallowing too quickly and choking to death.

"Mate," Jimmy said, tapping his arm, "if he broke up with you for good, then I suppose you can't do anything but move on. Besides, it's Christmas. There's bound to be some lonely guy on the street you can hook up with."

Thomas gave Jimmy the worst possibly glower he could muster. "I didn't 'hook up' with Philip because he was a lonely guy on the street – "

"Yeah, fine, you met him at a party, and chances are there's going to be another guy looking for that perfect guy at some Christmas party," Jimmy said. He got a sort of mischievous glint in his eye, sort of the 'I'm thinking of pranking a girl' type of look. "Like the one next week …" he suggested, faking casualness.

"Your cousin's annual Christmas party?" Thomas asked. He had heard Jimmy briefly mention such a soirée from last year.

"Yeah. And I'll get you an invitation, but only if you stop whining about Philip. You shouldn't bother with him anymore if he just dumps you like that. He's not worth pursuing."

Thomas rubbed his hands through his damp hair, clawing at his brain to stop conjuring images of lying in bed with Philip again. "I'll try not to."

"Good." Jimmy stood up.

"Oi, where are you going?" Thomas demanded.

"I promised Ivy I'd meet up with her," Jimmy said, grabbing his coat. Thomas scoffed: he knew Ivy, Jimmy's girlfriend, and his immediate thoughts had been an intoxicated mouse.

He hadn't known Jimmy for an obscene amount of time – he had met Philip before he'd crossed paths with Jimmy – but they had already become decent friends. Thomas knew that Jimmy had dated several girls in the past, probably all looking like tiny drunk rodents, but at the first glance Thomas had believe Jimmy was, at least, bisexual. Nothing substantial had proven this theory, as he had never seen Jimmy be intimate with other guys. Nevertheless, Thomas had his suspicions.

Thing was, he had never acted on those assumptions because he had been preoccupied with Philip.

Jimmy saw himself out the door, leaving Thomas alone. He watched the door long after the other man left.

Standing up to search for his mobile, he walked back into his bedroom and picked it up. Finding his photo album, he looked at all of the crazy candids of him and Philip. They ranged from nights at the pub to mornings after sex. Thomas didn't smile while he looked at any of them. He felt utterly defeated: if Philip didn't see those memories as happy times, then he shouldn't either.

Methodically, he began to delete all of those photos, one by one. He made a mental note to delete the ones on Facebook and his computer before throwing off his towel and searching for some clothes. Most of which Jimmy had stuffed into the washing machine.


	3. Deck the Halls with New Decorations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sybil has big plans for decorating Downton – but she's going to need some help in cleaning out the old ornaments.

“If we order these by tomorrow, we’ll have them by next Thursday.” Sybil shoved the catalogue under her mother’s nose for the third time that morning. Her index finger was glued onto one of the pictures showing a rather unique product.

“Sybil, what on earth is it?” Cora said, as calmly as she could.

“A snow machine,” answered Sybil.

Frankly, she didn’t know why she was so excited about seeing one in the catalogue, save for the fact that it was a machine that could make fake snow inside. For the past week and a half she had been flipping through catalogues and scrolling through websites for special Christmas decorations.

“A snow machine?” Cora repeated. “Sybil, you do realize we get quite enough snow outside at this time of year, we don’t need any indoors.” She added quietly, “besides, it looks like a modern guillotine.”

“You did say that we should shop for new decorations this year. All our old ones are old-fashioned — ”

“I did not say we were going to replace the entirety of our Christmas decorations with a snow and death machine,” Cora pointed out. “We agreed last week we would toss out the broken ornaments and the ugly stuff, and find some pretty things to replace them.”

Sybil scowled. “No matter what, Granny will end up ruling over this entire process. I really think we should — ”

“Sybil, please, one thing at a time. First things first, clean out the broken ornaments. Then we can decide which of the other ones should go.”

Mentally trying to think of a way to continue the argument and failing, Sybil nodded half-heartedly. In hindsight, the snow machine was a bit much (and extremely expensive) but Sybil wanted something new and extravagant that she didn’t see year after year. She did love the older decorations, but only because she was reminded of Christmastime when she was a little girl, and seeing them put up made Christmas seem so real. The problem was, some of the decorations were old enough to be in the British Museum. Quite a few ornaments were chipped or scratched or just plain ugly. But no one had taken the time to sort through them and put them in the rubbish bin.

Until Sybil assigned herself the unofficial job of “Downton Decorator.” Which, as is seemed now, would involve mostly sifting through moldy cardboard boxes. Although, she did not feel too badly about this task, because it would mean she would uncover the demonic Santa Claus figurine and finally avenge her traumatic experience of tripping down the stairs and landing within inches of its angry troll face.

Sybil left her mother's sitting room and went back up to her room to find her mobile. She had decided to start early on cleaning out the boxes in the upper rooms, but she was going to need help. When she last went up there, Sybil has stopped counting at thirty boxes. By the time she alone went through all of them, Christmas would be over. Her sidekicks therefore would be her friends, Gwen Dawson and Tom Branson.

Well, unbeknownst to anyone but the two of them, she and Tom were more than just ‘friends.’

It was a secret she had difficulty concealing most of the time from her parents. To them, Tom was a ragtag yob who spent far too much of his time absorbing political readings. True he was not the type of man most wealthy people would be seen with, but neither was Sybil. And though it had taken a while, unearthing genuine side of him had allowed her to see the diamond under the rough exterior.

She sent an email to Gwen, knowing she would be on her computer at this time. Gwen worked as someone's secretary, but she always kept her mail inbox open. Sybil would hear back by the time she was done calling Tom.

She could have easily just texted Tom, which would avoid any eavesdropping family members discovering their contacting each other. But she wasn’t entirely prohibited from contacting him – her parents had discovered that the hard way – so it did not actually matter in what manner she and him communicated with. Besides, her mother had already agreed that Tom was capable of helping out with any task given to him, so therefore she had already given Sybil permission to ask him for help in cleaning out the Christmas decorations. In Sybil’s mind, it counted.

Dialing Tom’s mobile number, she waited for him to pick up. She fingered a corner of the décor catalogue while, from the receiver, came the annoying dial tone, steady automated ringing. She wasn’t too terribly surprised when the voicemail machine answered, although she was anxious to hear Tom’s answer.

“Hi, Tom, this is Sybil. I was wondering – if you aren’t busy – if you wanted to help me go through all of our old Christmas boxes and throw out old ugly decorations. Okay? Call me back.”

Yuck. She hated leaving messages.

While she waited to hear back from Tom and Gwen, Sybil opened up her laptop and started it up. As soon as she was connected to the internet, she logged onto a certain website, a sort of feminist blog and forum. Even if her parents knew about Tom, there was no way they would know about her secret life as a blogger for this website. On the internet, she was known as <miss_harem_pants>. If she would remember how she came up with those names, she would definitely blog about it.

She occasionally posted long rants about multiple issues that aggravated her, primarily about the existence of modern misogyny and current political issues. It was hard not to constantly sound pissed all the time, but writing, Sybil found, was a good outlet for her distress. It was not at all like Edith’s journalism ventures: Sybil wrote purely to discuss and to inform. She did not care to be pointed out as some wealthy child of a near-extinct species. That was why she used a screen name like <miss_harem_pants>. Some of the authors on the site used normal-sounding names (though those might have been pseudonyms as well).

Edith probably only did it for the publicity. And her “boyfriend.”

Gwen emailed her back while Sybil was looking at the latest posts on the feminist website. Apparently Gwen would be available only on next Saturday, but that was good enough for Sybil. She wrote back a quick thank-you and then continued to surf the blog. She wondered how many Christmas-related articles would pop up in the weeks to come, keeping one ear turned towards the door in case either her mother or father were to come calling. If her father knew what she did in her spare time, his face would contort to resemble the evil Santa statue and suffer an aneurysm.

Her mobile did not ring until noon, when Sybil was lounging in the library, also the warmest room in the house. Her papa was out somewhere, and Mama was still in her private sitting room. When she heard Tom’s personalized ringtone sound, she inhaled quickly and had to press the answer button a few times due to her sudden excitement.

“Tom!” she exclaimed in a loud whisper. “What have you been doing? I called you an hour ago.”

“Sorry, Sybil,” Tom said sheepishly. “I took a shift at the garage this morning.”

“Oh,” Sybil said shortly.

Tom worked odd hours at the car garage outside of the village. He knew cars well, and that was how he made money and spent time when he wasn’t educating himself on political corruption. It made for unpunctual communication and arrival on secret dates, however.

“So, you want me to help you cleanse your attic of old Christmas decorations?” Tom asked.

“Yes. If you can. And if you want to,” Sybil said.

“I’d like to help you with that Sybil, really. It’s not too big of a deal. But are your parents okay with it?”

“Tom, as long as they think that you are hear to help fix the plumbing or the car or something, they are fine. As far as they’re concerned, you’ll just be here sorting through crappy ornaments.”

“‘As far as they’re concerned,’ huh? What are you planning to do up in that attic?” Tom inquired.

Sybil blushed. “No, not that we’re – I mean, you will come to help – I didn’t actually mean – !”

Tom’s laughter cascaded through the receiver. “I’m teasing you Sybil. Yes, I’ll help. What time?”

“Gwen is going to help next Saturday and maybe Sunday …”

“Should I come tomorrow? How many boxes are there, exactly?”

“I have no idea. A lot, at least thirty.”

“Then I should come every day, starting tomorrow. It sounds like there will be a lot to go through. We shouldn’t save it all for one weekend.”

Sybil nodded, even though Tom wouldn’t say. “That sounds like a jolly good idea. Okay, come tomorrow after ten. We’ll just be going through the older decorations and tossing out the broken or ugly ones.”

“Won’t your grandmother want a say in what constitutes as ‘ugly?’” Tom teased again.

“I don’t care what she says. She should learn that her old-fashioned décor is too ancient for the twenty-first century.”

“I see,” Tom said, laughing again. “Anything else I should know?”

“One more thing. Among all the things we are going to be digging through, there is one thing that we must absolutely be careful of.”

A pause. “What is that?”

“It’s a demon Santa.”

Something sounded like a pig snorting on the other side. “Pardon?”

“A Santa Claus statue that, apparently, plotted to kill me while making it look like an accident.”

Apparently, Tom was not sure how to respond diplomatically. “What the – uh, when was this?”

Sybil took a look breath. “I was seven, and it was a week before Christmas. It was really late at night, and I heard this noise, a bell, like the ones they ring to get people to donate money. Anyway, I thought it was Papa doing that thing with the funny elf hat, waving it outside my door, but when I went outside, there wasn’t anyone. I swear, it was really dark, but I didn’t hear anything else. But I waited for a bit, and I heard the bell ringing again. So I go out in the hall and listen again. When it rang again it sounded like it was downstairs, so I went to the stairs. But while I was walking down, I tripped on something – I don’t know what – and I fell down.”

“Was it the evil Santa?” interrupted Tom.

“Maybe. I really wasn’t hurt too badly, but I was so scared, because it was dark and I thought I was going to die,” Sybil said. Then, for a dramatic effect to elicit sympathy from Tom, she made her voice slower and deeper. “I look up, slowly, and I am exactly one inch from this angry face, a troll from the depths of hell. Yes, the demon Santa Claus planned for me to trip and fall to my death. But just in case I survived, his bell, the one he used to summon me from my bed, was raised and ready to strike out my frontal lobe.”

There was a very long, very awkward silence between the two of them. Sybil was afraid that Tom had hung up.

“So … did it kill you?”

“Excuse me?” Sybil exclaimed. “I am really alive, in case you didn’t notice. I ran, screaming, into my parents’ room. They put away the statue for that year, but they forgot about my attempted murder and since then, it has been out every December, standing on the mantle in the drawing room. I hate looking at it, even now.”

“But why would a Santa Claus statue want to kill you?”

“When we find it, you can ask it. I’m not going anywhere near it once it is out in the open.”

“Alright, then, Sybil. Would you like me to bring the salt and the garlic?”

“Eh, what?”

“Sybil, it’ll be fine. I’ll protect you from the evil Saint Nicholas vessel.”

Sybil breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you so much, Tom.”

“No problem,” Tom said.

“One more thing,” Sybil said hurriedly, before Tom could hang up.

“What is it?”

“Please bring that salt. And a knife.”

Tom would not stop laughing to himself for two hours afterwards.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The evil Santa Claus incident is based on a true story, from the life of yours truly. I still have that statue, and it really looks like a troll from Hell. It is so evilly sinister and ugly that no Christmas anthology would be complete without it.


	4. Love Wants to Come Down for Christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A newspaper article, a request for company at Christmas, and past experience of love.

Even before Papa opened his newspaper, Edith was expecting him to say something regarding her most recent article.

At breakfast, he read the same exact paper that Michael Gregson was editor of, and the one that Edith sometimes wrote for. She knew that somewhere inside her article was waiting to be read, then scrutinized mercilessly by her papa. It was the usual progression of events: he read the front page articles, then turned inside, scanned the titles, caught Edith’s name, then proceeded to read, mentally evaluating the content of the writing.

Edith waited for that disparaging moment with bated breath, pretending to be nonchalant about the situation. She had been told multiple times, by multiple people, not to be bothered by critics and people who hated on articles for a living. But if one of those people were her father, then it was his opinion that especially mattered. If she wrote something that upset him horribly, then she’d never hear the end of it. That was a thought that sent her into a small panic before every time she submitted an article for publishing.

She steadied herself as he flipped the paper over, done with the important front-cover stories, and ran his eyes over the ink as smoothly as a figure skater on ice. Edith anxiously traced his eyes and where on the page they were reading. She knew exactly where her article was. Knowing that watching him read her piece would only give her an accelerated heartbeat, so she turned away and focused on a half-eaten plate of eggs. She also began to think about what Michael had asked her about a week before: did she want to stay at his flat in London the week of Christmas?

She heard an intake of breath, of someone about to speak, and her heart skipped a beat.

“Papa, just so you’re aware, Tom Branson is coming to help me clean out some of the old Christmas decoration boxes. You remember, we talked about getting rid of some of them?”

Robert gave an affirmative sound. Edith breathed.

“Just so you’re aware,” Robert said pointedly, “only throw out the broken ones. Your grandmother will want a say in which of the old ones go.”

Only Edith detected Sybil’s eye roll.

“Well, even she would cringe at seeing some of that junk up again,” Sybil said.

“Oh, really?” Edith noted, “You think she’ll change her mind after fifty years of having some of those decorations?”

“Yes. It’s more than ten years into the twenty-first century, and even she knows that,” Sybil said. She finished her juice in one long gulp and then walked out, leaving Edith to suffer through her papa’s critique alone.

Trying to keep her mind off of what her father was going to say, Edith thought about Michael’s offer to let her stay with him for the week of Christmas in London. She seriously thought that she would be accepting that offer (although she wished often to make a permanent move with him). Even if Mary was already gone, it would not be as if Edith would be absent for long. Her parents would survive without her for a week, and they had Sybil and Matthew to keep them company. And Isobel Crawley would no doubt keep Granny occupied until New Year’s.

“Well then, Edith,” Robert said suddenly. Edith’s head shot up, and she stared at her father with tense anticipation.

“Quite an article you have written here,” he started.

“Is it?” Edith answered nervously. She wasn’t sure how to gauge his emotion about the piece, whether it was distaste or slight interest.

Robert nodded. “I'm not entirely sure how much agree with what you have written, but nonetheless your language is coherent and your ideas are well developed.”

He took a sip of tea. Edith waited for him to say something else, but he seemed to have moved onto another section of the paper. She let out a long breath: she hadn’t unhinged him just yet.

“Oh, and on a related note, have you told Mr Gregson of your Christmas plans?” added Robert.

“What do you mean?” Edith asked.

“I mean, have you given him an answer as to what you are doing the week of Christmas?”

Edith, either due to a sixth sense or the knowledge that her father was not head-over-heels with delight about Michael Gregson, began to grow suspicious. “Are you implying something?”

Robert feigned defense. “What? Of course not. I was simply asking a question, nothing more.”

Edith felt frustration rising inner face. Her father’s constant pushing often made her feel like any relationship she got into was doomed. He had this same attitude the last time she had declared someone her significant other, and though that relationship had ended miserably, his relief at its termination effectively caused her to stop speaking to him civilly for several weeks.

“Do you not want me to stay with him for Christmas?” she asked through gritted teeth.

Robert folded the newspaper aggressively and turned to look his middle daughter in the eye. “Edith, listen to me very carefully. It's not a good idea to stay with Mr Gregson for an entire week in his house – !”

“What are you so upset about?” Edith interjected. “Are you really trying to keep me hostage at home?”

“Edith, that is not what I am implying. I am simply telling you —”

“Well, I don’t think I need to hear it,” Edith interrupted again. She released an exasperated sigh. “Why is it so difficult to please you? You tell me to go out sometimes, be with people, but when I’m invited to London for Christmas you want to keep me locked up inside my own home like some princess in a book!”

“That is not at all what I want!” Her father’s voice raised dangerously. “I want you to be safe and happy, and to me, staying with a man you don’t know very well does not merit anything good.”

“I know Michael well, I’ll have you know, and he is _not_ a stranger to me. I _want_ to stay with him for Christmas, and if you think that your dislike for him is going to keep me away, I’m very sorry, but you are wrong!”

With that, Edith threw down her napkin for dramatic effect and stomped out of the dining room. Her father made no attempt to call her back.

It really was not fair: once upon a time, she hadn’t had anyone to pay her attention. Boyfriends were a devastatingly horrid part of her life that, no matter what happened, she both wished to have and never wanted to think about again. She wouldn’t force herself to think about Patrick again – that was a disaster story of another day and age – but her breakup of over a year ago still haunted her. The humiliating event, in front of her family, was enough to send Edith into a spiral of despair. Fate had taken pity on her, though, and sent Michael Gregson her way, along with a chance to write a regular column in Michael’s paper. Life was good for the most part, until someone decided that it wasn’t good enough, and since Edith and Michael had declared themselves to be in a (somewhat long-distance) relationship, her father was hell-bent on letting Edith know did not approve.

She had not seen Michael for about three weeks: that was when he had asked her to join him for Christmas. She had been to his home in London a few times before for dinner, a nice cosy flat on a picturesque street. With a little bit of imagination, Edith could picture in her head how beautiful it would look when it was decorated. Michael had, however, said he was bad at decorating, and if he had Edith helping him out, he could go the grave knowing that he had made his flat look pretty for once.

Edith considered talking to her mother about going with Michael, but she knew her father would have the final say between the two of them. Mama said that, since Mary was gone, “it would be nice to have the remainder of our family here during the holidays.” But Edith had spent the last two decades of Christmases with her family, so surely she should be permitted to spend one Christmas away from them. She had even said she would be home by New Years Eve, and next year she would stay at home for Christmas, but nothing was persuading anyone.

There were many times in her life when Edith felt absolutely useless. This was one of those times.

Hoping to take her mind off of things, Edith collected her car keys, slid on her gloves and coat, and slipped unseen out the door. She felt the morning wind chill biting and scratching as she walked to the garage where her lovely car was waiting. She adored the car that her parents had bought her last Christmas: with it, she could go anywhere, and it was the closest thing she had to a genuine golden ticket to freedom.

Going for drives was a sort of recreation for her, even before she could drive. With her own one now, she did not have to borrow one of the chauffeur-driven Chryslers. In the summertime she loved to drive with the top down, enjoying the bright views of the country all around her. It was getting much colder now, though, and Edith did not think it recreational to drive with icicles forming from her nostrils. After putting the top up, Edith started up the car and drove it off of the estate as fast as she could.

She drove down the long stretch of road that ran through the village. She passed through the small hamlet, and once outside, increased her speed to the legal limit. There stark, plain countryside as far as the eye could see. North England was grey and barren in the winter, an iceless Arctic. Edith imagined, right now, heading down to London, not stopping for anything until she got to the colored lights and tall towers of the city. To run away from her family determined to keep her away from the man she genuinely loved – it seemed a very storybook-like plot. The only thing that kept her from doing that right now was that she hated to be dishonorable. If only she had more gumption to actively disobey her parents as Sybil did; she might taste freedom more often.

But she loved Michael: she was completely and wholly sure of that fact. She needed to feel his love at Christmas. She felt like that would give her something she had been missing for several Decembers in a row. She wasn’t sure of that missing feeling, but something – perhaps someone from above – was telling her that she would find that in London with Michael by her side.

Edith was hardly a selfish girl, but what she wanted most for Christmas was to have just one pair of eyes fixated on her, only her. Michael could give that to her. Even if she was forbidden from ever seeing him again, she would cherish that one Christmas with him.

**Author's Note:**

> Reviews are, as always, welcome. Singing carols in celebration is a bit much.


End file.
